


crown of thorns

by schweet_heart



Series: Pornalot Entries 2016 [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Begging, Canon-Typical Violence, Challenge #3: Kink Link, Community: pornalot, Community: trope_bingo, Enemies to Lovers, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Master/Slave, Mercury - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Games, Minor Character Death, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pornalot, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Situational Humiliation, Slavery, Unsafe Sex, pineapple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:45:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon AU. Camelot falls quickly, but bloodily. Captured after the battle, Arthur Pendragon is given to the Druid Leader's son, Merlin, as a slave - but he's not one to give up his power so easily.</p><p>Written for Pornalot 2016 Challenge #3: Kink Link any my "free space" trope_bingo square.</p>
            </blockquote>





	crown of thorns

 

Camelot falls quickly, but bloodily. By the time Arthur is dragged into the Druid leader’s tent and shoved to his knees before him, only a handful of his knights remain.

“Arthur Pendragon,” the man says, baring his teeth in a smile. He is stocky and broad-shouldered, with eyes like mercury and a full, dark beard. “How the mighty have fallen.”

Arthur says nothing. He will not give this man the satisfaction of surrender.

“Your father is dead,” the Druid says. “And so is your army. Either you pledge me your fealty and that of your men, or I will kill them one by one until you submit. Which would you prefer?”

“I have a counter-offer,” Arthur growls. “Let my men live, and I’ll give you the mercy of a quick death when I retake what is mine.”

The Druid laughs. “Wrong answer,” he says.

 

 

Leon dies first, then Bedivere. Percival at least manages to take down three of his captors before he, too, dies with a sword through his throat. Through it all, the Druid’s eyes are on Arthur’s face, smiling that feral smile as he watches the prince sweat.

When there are only ten men left, Arthur bows his head, guilt and humiliation burning in his gut. “I yield,” he grinds out through clenched teeth. “Let them live, and you will have my pledge.”

 

 

Arthur is given to the Druid’s son, a tall, lanky boy of around eighteen.

“I’m Merlin,” he says, taking Arthur’s wrist and tugging him into a nearby tent. “Sit down, I need to take a look at your leg.”

Arthur sits, since he can think of nothing else to do. The wound on his thigh is oozing blood, and now that the battle is over other injuries are making themselves felt. The boy looks at him and swallows. “I’m going to have to take off your armour,” he says, reaching tentatively for one of the vambraces. “Those wounds will need cleaning.”

“Why bother?” Arthur asks bitterly. “I’m your prisoner.”

“Technically, you’re my slave,” Merlin corrects, grinning. The smile fades when he catches Arthur’s eye, and he looks away. “Either way, you’re my responsibility.”

He strips Arthur briskly then kneels in front of him with warm water and a clean cloth. Arthur hisses as Merlin begins sponging his naked thighs, startled more by the intimacy than the sting. The boy’s hands tremble slightly and he keeps his eyes down, cheeks red. To Arthur’s mortification, he can feel himself growing hard at the fumbling touch, and he forces himself to focus on the pain and not the gentle fingers that tend him. When it’s over, he pulls on the simple woollen shift that Merlin hands him without complaining, unable to look him in the eye.

 

 

The next few weeks are a tightrope. Merlin’s father makes a point of ordering Arthur about, and when he rebels, he has Arthur’s men flogged and reduces their rations by half. Merlin smuggles food to Arthur anyway, fleshy chunks of pineapple that make his mouth sting for hours afterwards, and once, out-of-season strawberries. Arthur hates it, hates being fed on scraps like a dog, but eventually he learns to control his temper and bide his time. He will be king one day, and then Balinor will burn.

Until then, of course, there is Merlin. The boy apparently has no idea what slavery means, or the kinds of things he could use Arthur for, if he had a mind to — and he does, if his shy little glances are any indication. Arthur corners him in his tent one evening and kisses him experimentally, only to be surprised when Merlin doesn’t kiss him back before drawing away.

“You want me, don’t you?” Arthur asks, looking at him. Merlin nods.

“It’s just — I’ve never done this before,” he confesses. “And you’re a slave, I can’t…”

Arthur kisses him again and bites his chin. “I’m not,” he says, sliding a hand down to Merlin’s cock. “Do you understand? I choose this. It’s not because I’m a slave.”

Merlin whimpers, his eyes flaring gold. In moments, they are both naked, and Merlin allows himself to be pushed down onto the pallet, opening his legs so Arthur can kneel between them. Arthur grabs the first vial that comes to hand and prepares them both too-quickly, aware of Merlin watching him, his wide eyes and eager, shaky breaths. By the time Arthur is done, his cock is already hard, and he pulls Merlin into his lap more roughly than he means to, barely pausing before pushing into him. Merlin gasps, tensing briefly. Then he bears down with a soft moan, taking all of Arthur inside him as he wraps his legs around Arthur’s waist.

“Fuck,” he blurts. “I can  _feel_  you — Arthur…”

Arthur groans, and begins to move, slowly at first then with increasing speed as Merlin pushes back against him. Merlin’s cock fills, lengthens, and Arthur reaches for it, sliding his fingers over the leaking tip and making Merlin shudder.

“Please,” he begs. “Arthur — please — “

“No.” Arthur scrapes his teeth over Merlin’s nipple, hand tightening at the base of Merlin’s cock as he thrusts upwards. “You are my subject, Merlin; you don’t come until I say you do.”

Merlin makes a strangled sound. “Gods, Arthur,” he manages, voice choked and breathless. “You — oh, fuck — please —  _please_  — “

“Do you yield?” Arthur demands, and Merlin keens high in his throat.

“Yes. Yes — please — I’m yours. Yours,” he repeats, desperate. “For god’s sake, Arthur, I’m yours.” His head falls back, exposing his throat in a gesture of surrender, and Arthur rewards him with another roll his hips, stroking Merlin’s cock one-handed until Merlin clenches, arches, and finally lets go.

 

 

“I could be, you know,” he murmurs afterwards, his hands tangled in Arthur’s hair, and Arthur buries his face in his neck, trying to forget that this is just revenge, trying to forget that this is what they are. “Yours.”

“I know,” Arthur whispers back, and takes what he is owed.


End file.
